


as i walk through the valley in the shadow of death

by honeykaspbrak



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Canon Divergent, Cocaine, Denial, Drug Use, Fingering, Gallavich, M/M, Sex, Smut, Symbolism, Unspoken Love, alcohol use, complicated adult emotions, feeeeelings, heavy religious imagery, i guess, i guess this would be like ? the s2 gallavich relationship, internalized homophobia referenced, like it doesn’t fit into the plot line of the show but also doesn’t really contradict it, mild violence, sex without love (but is it really mickey? is it really?), shit i love mickey i miss him so much, that kinda vibe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-27 16:49:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15028931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeykaspbrak/pseuds/honeykaspbrak
Summary: ian is white marble and holy water and all mickey wants to do is put his hands on him, dirty him, make him impure and unclean and his.





	as i walk through the valley in the shadow of death

he’s nauseous, breath of a drunkard sleeping in a church pew clouding stained glass, jesus dying on the cross. his room is cramped and dark, twin bed pushed under a low hanging shelf, air full of cigarette smoke and tamped-down bitterness. he rolls onto his stomach, bare back sweating and catching the light of the side lamp, groans and buries his face in the crook of his arm. 

ian’s hand, too hot and sticky to be comfortable, finds the small of his back. fingertips press into bone, hard enough to practically hurt, but mickey likes it like that well enough. he doesn’t have to look back at ian to know that there’s a cocaine halo blooming around his ginger head. blood, tongue, fire, the color mickey’s vision goes when ian crooks two, three fingers deep into him and forces a silent prayer to fall from his cracked, sinner’s lips. ginger. firecrotch. mickey could roll over and bite ian’s lip open. he could throw a punch right into his alabaster, freckled cheekbone. 

ian is white marble and holy water and all mickey wants to do is put his hands on him, dirty him, make him impure and unclean and _his_. 

“if you’re going to puke, do it now.” ian sounds strung out, jumpy, too large for this back bedroom. mickey doesn’t think he will puke. there’s a timeframe for that, a window, and ian’s fingers on his back got him through it. 

“‘m good, bitch.” mickey’s voice is scratchy, throat raw from liquor and coke in his sinuses and ian’s cock jammed down it in the bed of a truck that wasn’t theirs at a party that wasn’t worth staying at. 

“y’know,” ian eases himself down so his bare chest and stomach (he’s all sinew, mickey thinks, all lean, skinny muscle and bone and freckled skin bruised by mickey’s mouth and fists) lies flush against mickey’s bare back. ian’s chin (strong jaw, barely textured with stubble) rests in the concave slope between mickey’s neck and right shoulder. “you smell nice.” mickey scoffs, reaches a hand back to half-heartedly cuff ian on the head. 

he can’t shake the feeling that every complimentary thing ian says to him is a lie, an act, a prank. mickey does not ever feel pretty. he does not house gentleness in his chest or hands. he is not softness, not _forgive me, father_. he can count on two hands the number of times he’s been inside a church. kneeling, as a child, his father’s sharp elbow quick to jostle him in the ribs, tiny mandy squirming and squalling next to him. a smattering of funerals. a few nights sleeping in the pews while winter chicago wind threatened the high, arching walls. 

that’s what sleeping with ian gallagher spooning him, long bony fingers covering the tattoos on mickey’s hands, feels like. as if all of mickey’s walls are threatening collapse. the thought scares the shit out of him, suddenly, so much so that he rolls over, forcing ian off of him and against the wall, and hits him between the pecs with a closed fist. the sound of bone hitting bone, the incredulous, hurt look on ian’s angel face, makes nausea rise up in his chest again. 

but then that look on gallagher’s face passes as quickly as it came on, melts into a sneer. 

“tough guy, huh?” he’s goading mickey on, daring him to lay another finger on his deceptively clean skin. 

“i’ll show you tough.” mickey scrambles up into a kneel, takes a still-smirking ian by a bruising chokehold, forces him down into the dirty sheets. 

gallagher lays there, passive, huge eyes glinting in the room’s low light. he gets off on this just as much as mickey does - he’s half hard. mickey rests a palm ( _u-up_ decorates the fingers) over the bulge in ian’s dumb faggot jeans. 

mickey could die like this, a hand on ian’s red throat and redder dick, though he’d never tell that to gallagher. never in a million years. mickey would let ian kill him. 

“are you gonna stare or are you gonna fucking finger me?” ian’s voice is all rasped out, his pupils all blown out. mickey feels all the blood in his body rush to his balls. it doesn’t matter how many times he’s heard ian talk dirty - every time lewdness spills out of that seemingly-pristine, freckled mouth, it knocks him back several steps. jesus. 

“i’m gonna do both, fuckface.” ian doesn’t ask to bottom often. he likes to give and mickey likes to take but every so often, usually coked-up nights like this, the roles reverse. and, god, if mickey doesn’t appreciate the furrowed-brow, open-mouth, glistening-eyes look of gallagher being fucked open on his fingers. the noises he makes, squealing and gasping like a little bitch whore. 

ian fucking _keens_ , the closest to begging either of them ever gets, thrusting his hips up into mickey’s hand. mickey, who prides himself on being able to take a fucking hint, takes his other hand off ian’s throat and goes for the button on his jeans. ian is so thin and bony, thighs milk-white and bruised when mickey gets the jeans down to his knees. he recognizes the broken-capillary prints of his own mouth along gallagher’s inner thighs. it makes his cock strain in his pants. 

“ _hhhng_.” ian moans. he’s drooling a little bit, eyelids fluttering, and mickey hasn’t even gotten his boxers off. jesus. 

“hold your horses, needy ass.” mickey doesn’t want ian to hold anything back. this is his dream. he gets his dried-bloody knuckles in ian’s underwear and pulls them down in a swift motion as ian bucks his skinny-boy thighs off the bed.

mickey loves gallagher’s cock. it’s the closest thing to god he’s known, fucking _long_ , stupidly, unfairly long, but jesus fucking christ, it feels so _good_ inside of mickey, stretching him to his limit and further. ian isn’t fully hard yet, probably at the fault of the coke and stolen tequila. mickey goes down on him, sucks him back as far as he can, gags on his cock, feels the spit collect on his chin. 

ian fists his hands in the sheet, cusses and prayers and praise leaking from his lips, and there, he’s all the way hard. mickey pops off him, licks his lips. he loves the taste. the choking helplessness. jesus. he hears ian murmur _cockslut_ and it almost makes him faint. he’s too fucking high to be this turned on. 

he look at ian for a moment, the wrecked flush of his face that makes his freckles pop out, his red hair messy and sweaty and falling in strands over his forehead. he takes mickey’s wrist, moves it between his bare, quivering legs. he looks like he’s going to say something, _please_ , maybe, but does not. mickey gets the memo anyways. 

he drags his index finger over ian’s taint, the same way he remembers so well doing in the beer cooler at the kash-and-grab the first time this thing happened. ian shudders, a full-body thing that makes mickey feel all-powerful. 

he hears the music that mandy is playing in the living room change, get faster and louder. he smells ian’s breath, hot and distillery strong. the nausea is still there, but has lessened into something less unpleasant that reminds him he’s alive. he’s alive and ian gallagher is underneath him, cock hard against his freckled stomach, eyes huge and dark with lust. mickey pulls his fingers back up and shoves them into his own mouth. 

he can taste ian on his hand, sweaty and salty and smelling faintly of jizz and weed. mickey smiles at that scent, wonders when the last time gallagher got off was. imagining ian jerking himself off is one of mickey’s greatest pleasures, the thing he thinks about in bed alone, while walking down the street, when he’s smoking with mandy, in the shower. he has yet to see it happen but, god, he can picture it. ian grabbing at himself with a strong, thin hand, pulling fast and rough the way mickey knows he likes it. what does he think about? knowing that there’s a very real possibility that ian pictures him, _this_ , makes mickey go hot and lightheaded. 

“mick.” he says it in this measured but urgent voice that makes mickey rip his spit-slicked fingers from his mouth and push ian into the mattress with an elbow to his hip. 

“yeah?” there are several silent beats. mickey can feel bass pound through the thin wall. ian’s breathing is heavy and ragged below him. 

“fucking _fuck_ me.” the delivery, his cracking voice and the drool on his chin, makes mickey want to laugh and cry all at once, emotion welling up in him like pipes fit to burst. it’s terrifying. instead, mickey reaches down and presses his middle finger, sloppy with spit, into ian gallagher. 

he moans, jerks his hips, and after that it’s all hands and teeth scraping and mickey’s fingers curling and ian’s head flopping back, his cries like a siren’s song as they echo off the wall. ian clayton gallagher, and mickey is pressing his lips to a freckled chest. ian clayton gallagher, and the heavens open up and let forth a storm, electricity that mickey can feel down in his toes. ian clayton gallagher, and he’s back on the church’s cold stone floor, hands clasped to forehead in a beggar’s prayer _please god why do i feel this way_. ian clayton gallagher, and mickey trips over the syllables as he whispers them into the soft skin of a milk-white hip. 

ian clayton gallagher, and mickey is high off angel dust and the smell of sex and for the first time in two decades his skin does not feel like a suit that’s too tight in the shoulders. and when ian comes, with an exalted gasp that is too big to fit in the space under mickey’s rib cage, milkhailo aleksandr milkovich, now and in the hour of his death, feels hot tears gracing his eyelashes.

**Author's Note:**

> i really really hope you guys enjoyed it!! i’m on my second rewatch of shameless and, god, these two never get old. i miss them so much. please, comment!! i live off praise :,) (like ian gallagher, cough) let me know if i should write more of these two.


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